


Private Entry

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:22:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda to 3.03: The Reichenbach Fall. John continues to post on his blog for a while after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Entry

* * *

18th June

**Private Entry**

* * *

The press hasn't lost interest just because you're dead, you know.

There always seems to be a couple around when I leave the flat, taking pictures and shouting all kinds of awful things at me, trying to get a reaction. 

I've stopped leaving the flat.

I had to change my phone as well – they got the number somehow, and were calling all the time, at all hours. I don't understand why one man's reaction to losing his best friend should be worth all this.

My best friend.

God, Sherlock, why did you have to do it?

I called your mobile earlier, just to hear your voicemail message. “This is Sherlock Holmes. I'm probably busy, or I've decided you're dull. I'd prefer it if you texted me either way. Easier to ignore a text. If it's interesting or important, phone John.”

Pathetic, really, calling just so I could hear a recording of you saying my name. You'd have thought it was ridiculous. Sentiment. Not your thing.

This is ridiculous too. You always read my private posts, and it got to feel as if making one was the same as leaving a private note for you, but wherever you are now, you're not going to be hacking into my blog account.

Still feels as if you'll be reading this, though, then leaving some scathing comment.

God, I would give anything to come back tomorrow and find you had.

* * *

21st June

**Private Entry**

* * *

Last night, Mike dragged me to the pub. While we were sat, and I was trying to pretend that I'm doing fine, a reporter turned up.

“Did you know Sherlock was a fake? Were you part of the conspiracy? Did you help him set up the kidnapping? What was the precise nature of your relationship with him? Did you ever have sex with him?”

I nearly punched him. I was so angry, I would have done it if Mike hadn't stopped me and pulled me out of there. That would have looked great in the paper: Fake Detective's Assistant Arrested For GBH. That would have really got them all excited. They've already got my new phone number, god knows how.

You'd have known how.

I called your voicemail again, after Mike had gone. I can't seem to stop doing it, even though it just makes everything feel worse when you stop speaking, and there's that beep, and I know I'll never hear you speak as anything other than a recording again.

God, Sherlock, what were you thinking? Did you even stop to think what this would do to me?

I was a bit drunk, last night. I couldn't stop myself talking to you, after the beep. I can't think now what I said – more useless sentiment, probably. There are so many things I should have said to you when you were still here to actually hear them.

Mrs. Hudson's been getting endless condolence cards at Baker Street, you know. All those people you helped, hardly any of them think you were faking it. They saw what I saw – a true genius, and a hero. They all want us to know that they still believe in you, even if the papers are spewing nothing but poison.

If you'd just kept fighting this, we

No point in what ifs.

* * *

24th June

**Private Entry**

* * *

Lestrade came around today. I almost didn't let him in, but he looked as wrecked as I feel, some days. Other days I feel worse.

He said he'd never really believed you'd done that kidnapping, but that a good detective had to suspect everyone and investigate every lead. He said he hoped you would have understood that.

I can't decide if you would have, or if you'd have just been irritated by how very stupid they were being. Stupid and easily led, letting Moriarty pull their strings and bring you down.

God, Sherlock, we could have weathered it, you know we could have. They're going back over all your cases now, but Lestrade is confident they won't find any problems with them. He said he wouldn't have closed them if there'd been any doubt, and none of the other DIs you'd worked with would have either.

What did Moriarty say to you on that roof? It must have been something – you wouldn't have jumped otherwise, I know you. Knew you. You valued yourself – your brain - far too highly for suicide. If I hadn't watched it, I would never have believed that he hadn't pushed you.

But I did watch it. I still watch it, on a loop in my mind.

I don't know if I'm going to be able to get through this. It's too much.

* * *

27th June

**Private Entry**

* * *

Less than two weeks. It shouldn't feel like this after less than two weeks. You spent longer locked in your room when you were doing the light-deprivation experiment.

Your funeral

No, I can't write about that yet.

The bloody papers aren't helping. Yesterday morning there was a 'scoop' about us, claiming we were shagging. Some 'source close to us', apparently, but it was all conjecture and hearsay – 'they were hardly ever seen apart.' What does that prove? And what does it matter to anyone but us if we were?

Anyone but me, now.

* * *

28th June

**Private Entry**

* * *

I had a visitation from Mycroft today. He looked just as uncomfortable to be here as I was to see him, possibly because of the looks I gave him. I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive him any more than I ever will you.

He had two things to tell me. The first was that you actually had a Will, which frankly astonished me. The only thing more surprising was that you'd left everything to me. Why would you do a thing like that? As if I want any of your stuff – I just want you back, and alive.

He also said that certain tabloids had been hacking into your voicemail account and listening to your messages, in case there was a story in them. Fucking sick – who would do that? I'm beginning to think these bloody journalists aren't even human.

Mycroft didn't mention the message I left the other day, when I was drunk, but I could tell he knew about it. Smarmy git. He said he was dealing with it, but he was going to keep your name out of it. I presume there's about to be some bloody great scandal over some other poor bastard's phone being hacked. Hopefully that'll be enough to knock you out of the news, and I can get a bit of privacy from these vultures.

Not sure what I'll do with it, though. Not sure what I'm going to do with the rest of my life at all, really.

Thing is, if they can get into your voicemail, they might well be able to hack into this blog. I'm going to have to delete all these private entries. Shouldn't even be writing this one, but somehow I needed to say goodbye. I didn't get to say goodbye properly to you, so I guess I'll settle for saying goodbye to the fake you I've been writing at.

Goodbye, Sherlock. You were a great man, and I was honoured to have been your friend.

That doesn't mean I'm not still furious with you, of course.

* * *

Sherlock didn't take his eyes off the computer screen when he heard Mycroft come in. “I gather you didn't get the warmest of receptions,” he said.

Mycroft let out a quiet sigh. “I fear John will always hold a grudge against me. Especially when he finds out the truth.”

_If he finds out,_ thought Sherlock, contemplating the amount of work ahead of him before he could regain his life. So many ways in which he could fail, and so leave John alone and grieving.

“He seems surprised that I left him everything,” he said, rather than voice a thought Mycroft had surely already divined. “Who else does he think I would leave it to?”

He could hear Mycroft shrug. “Me?” he suggested. Sherlock scoffed. “I suspect it was more the idea that you had thought about it at all that surprised him.”

Sherlock had made that Will a month after meeting John. Even then, he couldn't imagine leaving his things in the care of anyone else.

Mycroft stepped up behind him, reading over his shoulder. “Ah,” he said quietly. “A sensible precaution.”

“One you intended,” said Sherlock. Mycroft would have made sure to phrase what he was saying about Sherlock's voicemail in such a way as to prompt John to rethink these blog entries, but without letting on that he knew about them.

“He needs to move on,” said Mycroft. He reached over Sherlock's shoulder to press the refresh button. “As do you.”

The private entries on John's blog all abruptly disappeared, deleted at some time while Sherlock had been reading the last one. The last public entry jumped to the top of the page.

**He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him.**

Sherlock let out a long breath. Mycroft was right. Time to move on and put all this right. Whatever it took.


End file.
